6459/Busy Night. Awkward morning

Busy Night. Awkward morning
Date of Scene:	04 June 2021
Location:	A very posh hotel in Rome, with unusually small beds
Synopsis:	The morning after a very eventful night. Terry and Nick have an awkward and very eventful wake-up.
Cast of Characters:	Terry O'Neil, Michael Hannigan

---

Terry O'Neil has posed:
~Oh, what a night /
Late December, back in '63 /
What a very special time for me /
As I remember, what a night--~

It isn't often that Vorpal's dreams are interrupted by musical numb-

Okay, that is an absolute, bald-faced lie, as recent events have aptly demonstrated. This, however, is the first oniric musical number that is not directly related to supernatural happenings. As such, the Cheshire cat stirs only very lightly, as the unexplainable dream has him dressed in all sorts of leather and stage make-up, singing for an audience of thousands. Yet all that he can sing is that old song his mother would constantly 'boogie' to every Sunday morning while preparing breakfast. Oh what a night!

Thinly, in that liminal stage between waking an sleeping, he flexes his arms and finds they are wrapped around something warm. He lets out an inarticulate sound and buries his nose against the warmth, letting a sigh and trying to dive back into somnolence again. His uniform is discarded on the floor, instead a pair of black-and-white leggings serving as sleepwear, patterned with the cartoony, simplified heads of black and white cats, which was rather fitting. A hole in the back has been improvised for the tail, as needed with most things Vorpal wears.

He even purrs a little. Whatever he is holding, it matters little to him. It's warm and comfortable, and that is all that matters to a cat.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Last night was... Ugh.

There really is no way to describe yesterday in a small number of words but- A lot of weird stuff is happening in dreams. A bunch of people got together to take care of weird stuff and yippie skippie a robot walks amongst us now.

Well, not literally. For instance right now, Mike, dressed in his usual sleep pants, is rolled to the edge of the only double bed in his hotel room snoozing away. For most of the night he's been dead to the world as he had need to take his medicine before going to sleep. A nice, long dreamless sleep where even the most grotesque displays of dead parent can not make its presence known. But even chemically induced reprieves from the memories have to end and the musician groggily starts to come to.

As his brain starts to boot up slowly, he feels a hint of warmth against his bare back, along with arms wrapped around. A puzzling thing to encounter as he tries to gather himself. Then, there's a purr...

There's a slow smile sneaking to the side of his face as a mostly pleasant memory stirs. But it coul-

But who else could it be?

Eyes start to blink open, getting a blurry view of the rest of the hotel room, but not of the companion.

"...Greer?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
There's a voice cutting into the flimsy remnants of his dream. It might as well be, he would reason later, since something very strange was happening. The words of the song kept changing into strange, nonsensical things-

~Oh, what a night
Lipgloss sizing, tenderizing meat
He was everything with cream and bee,
Three-D render, what a fright~

And then there's a name. It's not a name that immediately registers, because it's not /his/ name. Not even one of his two other names*. Nevertheless, a name has been spoken and he is compelled to answer.

"Mm...m?" he answers in his mellifluous baritone. He is not surprised now that he recognizes the shape of a man in his arms. That's natural to him. Still clawing his way (figuratively) back into consciousness, he touches his nose to the back of a neck and sighs softly, giving a slight squeeze with his arms and he attempts to stir. Warmth, however, is such a strong temptation that he decides he will consider the matter, pass it on to a committee, and then table the matter for a couple of elections until the consideration were to rise again.


*Footnote: See T. S. Eliot, true believers! ---Editor

Michael Hannigan has posed:
The questioning tone is not an answer. Nick grumbles in response but the protest dies away as she nuzzles into him a bit more.

Nick's eyes slowly blink, trying to gain focus. Something muddled at the back of the head seems to want to say something but hell if he can hear them.

"...Greer?" He asks, "How much did we drink? "

And then the back of the head gets heard.

"...when did you start wearing pants?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Greer.

Greer?

GREER!

Green eyes slowly open, as he realizes that he does know that name. It's just not one that he uses frequently, not as often as 'Tigra', anyways.

He frowns and blinks. Light. Morning. Why did it have to be morning? Another brave attempt has him opening his eyes again, and that is when he finally takes in whom he is holding.

His hands flex a little, as one of his arms is tingling slightly from lack of bloodflow, as it often happens when one falls asleep wrapping one's arms around someone else, but he doesn't make a move to pull away.

"... it started when I was a toddler," he says very quietly, his brain sputtering to life at the realization of what is being asked, "it just seemed like the right thing to do. But it's always negotiable..."

He tries to remember last night. He remembers talking, a lot of it. Did he talk about his dead... or at least non-existent in the very literal sense dad? He was very tired. It had been a tiring day. Night. Whatever it was.

Despite the humorous answer, there is a slight tension in his body, half expecting Nick to turn around and punch him. Or at least push him out of the bed. Call it echoes off the memories the Vizierr of Ennui dredged up. They are never too far away.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Hearing the voice which is most definitely NOT Greer's. Nick's eyes snap open completely. Pupils screech inwards to protect itself from the added onslaught of morning light. Suddenly awake, he rolls forward, a clad leg kicking forward to more or less keep the exit still a standing one.

Body still moving, he ends up spinnng round, the other leg coming out as the musician looks to who it was hugging him. He pauses, standing on one leg while the other is still somewhat pointed towards Terry. Processing the visual. Booting up the play reel from the previous night.

Oh right...The nightmares. The graveyard. The long talk afterwards trying to process it. And the medicine.

The foot lowers to the floor. "Ah Morning. Sorry I'm kind of...off when I wake up after-. Kind of was-"

He pauses, "...Well. This is awkward."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Vorpal blinks a couple of times. He's not a morning person, even when he's a cat, but he /is/ familiar with being startled at wake-up, so he doesn't react terribly offended. "I know that feeling... sometimes when I wake up, I am under the impression I'm still in Wonderland..." he trails off, stretching his legs and stifling a yawn. His arms remain where they are, his hands rest gingerly on the covers while his green eyes narrow slightly in implied mirth.

"It's not awkward. It'll be awkward when you turn your head and see the winged mutant in the g-string asleep in the bathtub." A beat. "I'm kidding."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
A brow raises at the description being provided to him . "Hu-?'

He starts to turn his head, wondering how in the hell that came about before the brain starts catching up. There was no winged mutant last night. No alcohol. And Vorpal is an imaginative sort. But it doesn't hurt to hear confirmation coming from the source of the confusion.

He turns his head back, giving a slight smile. "Right..."

Despite being let off, Nick turns back around, still making a visual confirmation that Vorpal's the only other person in the room. "Yeah uh, Kind of driffted off to some old memories while getting my bearings together. Kind of thought-" He pauses, "- So, Wonderland...does it feel a lot like the dream realm?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Would you be able to tell the difference?" he asks, semi-Rabbinically. Slowly, he eases up into a sitting position on the bed, legs crossed under him and hands supporting his weight on either side. He tilts his head, "Alice certainly couldn't, and there are several schools of thought that place Wonderland halfway in the Dream realm and halfway in Fae. Nobody's bothered to ask us in the past, though... and I imagine most wouldn't care as long as tea is never late.."

"It wasn't that bad of a wake-up, was it?" he asks, gauging Nick's body language, "Although it seemed like you were expecting someone a little more... voluptuous, but no less hirsute." The corner of his mouth twitches a little with barely repressed mischief.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Nick's head tilts as Vorpal responds back regarding Wonderland. "...Fair enough. Similar mindsets needed for both..." Turning back to look to look to the feline friend he considers the Fae realm comment. "...Some aspects seem like Limbo as well." He volunteers.

The scarred arm lifts up allowing for him to rub at the back of the head as he considers the question regarding the state of the wake up. The face flushes a bit at the mention of him expecting someone else. "Well it's not bad. It's just I was a bit disoriented and I may have picked up on the wrong...cues."

Explaining the nuances of the hows and whys to how someone gets out of bed is hard. More so after coming out of a drug induced mini-coma. "-I might have thought you were someone else." He manages.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"That depends on the cues you thought you were picking up on," the cat says with a smile, propping his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, glancing at Nick. "I'm not going to deny I might have dropped cues like a newbie at billiards. But it's never unintentional."

"Someone else who doesn't wear pants and is covered in fur? Hmmm... who could that be?" he asks, "Doctor Hank McCoy?" he leans forward and says quietly, "This is the point where someone usually whacks me with a pillow, by the way."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
The hand rubbing the back of Nick's neck slides around to cover his face. Eyes closing as Terry starts to go through a listing of fur inclined persons "Oh God. " He laments, "There's not going to be a graceful way to get out of this topic, is there?"


And yet Terry provides a possible exit. But one that has a slight logistical problem with such an attack..

"I probably would but right now I'm out of bed and you have a monopoly on pillows."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"I do seem to have it, don't I?" the cat reaches over and grabs a pillow, hugging it to himself and grinning. "But I am reasonable with my domain. I accept bribes. Now..." he scoots closer to the edge of the bed and extends his legs, so that they are over the edge, "... do you want to exit the topic? Because I was hoping I could find out about some of the cues. And how amenable you were..."

He lets go of the pillow and slowly stands up, stretching his arms and back, wincing at a crack here and there, and then he rubs the back of his head, the first sheepish display of body language. "Because..."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Nick's arm drops, revealing a tired expression starting to gradually return. It is tempting to try and grab at one of the pillows once Terry holds one up a bit closer to the musician's reach but he refrains. A jaw clenches as the confessed reporter, and visible cat persona lists off the curiousities that stem from said topic.

He watches the cat man stretch before him, the resemblance to another in movement a bit uncanny. But upon the younger man pausing, the musician recovers his voice. "Yes. I'd like that." He admits, giving a nod, "I'd like to exit the topic."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Oh!" the Cheshire nods, and holds up a hand. A highway exit diorama materializes on the extended palm, with a sig that reads 'OFF TOPIC NEXT LEFT."

Underneath that, 'Toll Road' because of course it does!

He puts the pillow down on the bed and snaps his fingers, a series of purple sparks that signify the powers of chaos magic pours forth from his fingers and onto the bed. No matter how high-class a hotel might be, the age of the future where beds make themselves has not yet arrived, but that's the future in Wonderland as the bed makes itself up impeccably, only missing its little chocolate square.

"I'm sorry, I seem to have misread interest," he says, rubbing his elbow and walking to the other side of the bed where his gear was discarded. Embarrassment isn't something cats handle well. Vorpal is no exception. He clears his throat, "I thought there was... some interest."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Nick's head turns, slightly to look to the display in Cheshire's hand and then to the bed making itself. If that could be a regular thing in hotels... Although it could be a problem if someone was sleeping in and the feature kicked on.

With the cat man moving over to other side of the bed, pale eyes flicker over to watch him bend down to grab the clothes. The head cocks curiously to the mention of misreading interest. "Oh?"

Wait for it.

...

It's in the morning. What do you expect?

A brow rises, "Oh!"

There we go.

"I thought you were too tired to jump back... Ah, don't get me wrong, you're a nice guy but - Well for one, I'm older than I look. And-" He pauses, "...Wait. Didn't we just go through a whole thing getting your boyfriend's old teammate back?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Vorpal raises an eyebrow, and a hint of a smile appears. "I think you're a nice guy, too. I'm not exactly just nineteen, you know," he shrugs and turns to face Nick, hands on his hips. "I'll have you know Wonderland was around at least three hundred years before that girl came in and tattled it all to The Professor." He frowns. "Okay. Three hundred, two hundred and fifty, add or take. We're not entirely sure because the first fifty years after the Red King fell asleep were a little wild. Newly created and sowing our oats, were we. By the time someone decided to start keeping time- and I'll gie you one guess as to /who/ that was, some time had gone by."

He leans against the side table, arms crossed, and legs crossed at the ankles. "Yes, we got Gar's good old buddy back. And you're worried about Gar. And that is really very decent and kind of you, which I appreciate." His voice goes a little quieter, and he clears his throat. "I'm going to tell you something that isn't really known to the public, although tongues do wag here and there on the internet."

He pushes off the table and walks back to Nick, and sits at the edge of the bed, looking at him.

"So around the end of September of last year, I kind of disappeared into a pocket universe alongside Troia, Cyborg and Caitlin Fairchild." That part had been in the news- only, at the time, they had been given up for dead due to death by singularity.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Nick's arms fold across his chest, listening to the odd history of Wonderland and their time keeping practices. He chuckles a bit at the invitation to guess to who was the self appointed timekeeper. "White Rabbit?" He asks, shaking his head, "Based on what I've dug through. I get the general sense that anything that's remotely dream oriented absolutely SUCKS at keeping record of things. All I readlly get are bits and pieces here and there. Half of which I suspect is referring to other entities with the same name..."

Eyes settle on Vorp, "So, you mean to tell me you're actually older than me?"

His eyes follow as Terry moves closer, sitting before him. His head tilts down, watching the cheshire's lips as he speaks. As the book seems to indicate those seem to be the last thing to go. The talk of a pocket universe ends up earning Vorpal another interruption. "...Is this related to the doppelgangers?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Got it in one!" Vorpal grins, "It's not too hard to guess. Little neurotic rabbit obsessed with pocket watches and appointments. Though, I guess you'd /have/ to be when you work for someone who will behead you for being a second late or too early."

He notices Nick's eyes on his mouth, and grins, "I don't know if I /am/ older... you know how it is, if it's Dreamworld or Fae, the time scale can get... generous. Elastic. Maybe I am. Or maybe I'm as old as you. My Cheshire part didn't really learn to keep time until I came over here and had to file time cards. But then I was a little heartened to find out that people who were born here and have been doing it all of their lives have a hard time with them, too!"

"But no, it's not related to the doppelgangers, although it would be a whopper of a twister if it were." The cheshire spreads his hands, "I was gone for three months. For all the world knew, we were dead. It wasn't until the very end that we managed to communicate with Raven... through the dream realm of all places, and we managed to get back. But during that time, when Gar thought I was dead, he and another team member, Kian, got very close. Kian had become lost to his homeworld- you know, one of those displaced aliens- so he'd already done the loss thing once. They consoled each other. And one thing led to another..." by this time, Vorpal is gesturing like one would tell a story by the fireside, trying to go for suspense.

"When I came back, Kian brought us together telepathically. Over in his planet, people are a lot more open with who they share affection with because they always know what the other one is thinking, they know how they feel about each other and so the lingering hobgoblins of the human experience, destined to always be separated from the thoughts of others, don't arise as often. And we were allowed to feel how Gar and I felt for each other. We both realized that we had nothing to be afraid of. Well, to make a long story short-"

And then, a brief illusion of the entire cast of CLUE appears to surround him and says "Too late!"

He glances to them and they all vanish. Except Tim Curry, who manages to linger on for a few more seconds before fading away. He could never quite manage to order Tim Curry around. Then he faces Nick. "Knowing what we know... we are perfectly okay if, in the course of our daily adventures, there intimacy with other people."

He tilts his head and gives Nick a glance, and then he stands up. "Does that answer your question?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
To the confirmation of his guess being right, he gives a slight nod before trying to focus in on the explanation regarding ages. It's hard to get a straight answer from a cat. Much less one from Wonderland. There's a momentary grimace before Nick suppresses the urge to try and work out the possible math.

Math is hard.

Magic is hard.

Other dimensions are confusing as hell when not in the right mindset to talk about them.

He focuses, listening to the tale of being thought dead and of the world continuing without. The return and making adjustments to the changes in life. All that's missing is a red faced volleyball. As the cast of clue pops up, Nick glances over to the exasperated expression of Mr. Green and then to the mirthful chuckle face of Darkness. He looks back to Vorpal.

"Yes." The age topic is probably going to remain hard to explain. Probably best to just cut that one off right now. "I think."

Yep. It is certain. He's not in the right mindset at the moment to be talking to a Cheshire.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The feline nods slowly, and a hand goes up to touch Nick's shoulder gently. "I think you're brave, I've seen you go through... well. Bricky hell to help someone. I think you're a good guy, I like you, and I flatter myself to think that maybe you find me as attractive as I find you."

He takes one small step forward, shortening the distance between them slightly. "So you know I'm not some young ingenue that you need to worry about. Or some fame hog chasing a celebrity. OR," he adds, "A nosy reporter seeking to publish a tell-all in some sleazy tabloid. We've fought side by side in the dream realm and if you are ever in danger you can call on me." His velvety fingers trace a cruve across Nick's shoulder before dropping down to his side, "And I'm not going to push, or force you into anything. Just know that... I really like you, and it was a very nice wake-up." He pauses, and then adds while glancing at the bed.

"And you're also a rock star and the hotel could only give you a tiny bed? I mean, I'm not complaining..."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Nick's head turns, watching as Vorpal reaches over to touch his shoulder. Grip loosening, the musician's arms uncross, sliding down to to the side of his own waist. He glances back as Vorpal steps a tad closer. Blue eyes assess the green looking to him as intentions are made known.

The attention shifts to the movement to Vorpal's hand once more as he feels the admittedy pleasant sensation travel through the shoulder. Released. His posture straightens. Blinking a bit as Terry's hand moves away.

Realizing he hasn't yet, he takes a breath, looking back to the bed as Terry comments about the size. "Oh uh yeah. Probably a prank by my manager... Most of the the other rooms got taken up by a field trip and convniently around the time my room was booked... " He pauses, "And for a school our studio has a work study program with. So he is VERY much suspect."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The cat lets out a little chuckle, "Oh, I like your manager. That's something I would have done." His green eyes didn't miss Nick's reaction to the touch, his hand reaches over again and, this time, it traces its fingers across the back of Nick's hand, eyes focused on the blue.

"So... " he says quietly, "do you like the touch of fur? It just so happens I happen to have some!" he jokes, his eyes lighting up once again with that impish flair of his as his fingers rest on the back of the hand, "I don't have tiger stripes, though. Mine are of a different color."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
That would be one Wade Shaw of Shaw Studios." Mike volunteers, glance moving down to the hand as it traces his. The eyes close. Lips twisting upwards. "Who doesn't like soft things?"

That'd just be unnatural.

At the mention of tiger stripes, Nick's eyes open. Eyes look back to Terry before shifting to the hands. "I can't..." He states. Pulling his hand back, "...I have a show tonight so I should probably get ready for that."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The cat nods slowly as the hand is withdrawn. "I appreciate that- it's better than being told you have to wash your hair," he says witha slight smile, and gracefully turns on his toes to go back where his gear had been piled up. He bends over and checks It's all there, with the puzzling exception of his right glove, which he can't find on the spot. He decides to give it up as lost, under the circumstances, as it most likely got lost in transit at some point.

He straightens up, with his uniform neatly folded and his kneepads and shin guards nestled into each other for easy transportation. He turns around to face Nick across the bed and gives him a small smile, the usual brightness dulled a little by embarrasment. "Well, I'm all packed up and ready to go. I'll just, you know, step off to the side and all that."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
A frown forms on Nick's face as he's watching Vorpal gather his belongings with- well, his tail between his legs.

Do cats even do that?

Oh for crying out loud "Hey- Hey- " The musician starts, trying to be comforting, "It's not just a line. I really DO have a concert tonight. It's just, I'd rather have use of BOTH my shoulders, you know?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The cat's ears perk a little, but that line really can't go by without a quip. Widening his eyes in mock awe, he asks "Both shoulders? Dear god, what is it that you /do/ in bed? Handstands?"

He steps back towards Nick again, his clothes carefully gathered. "Well, then you must have a good concert tonight. The last thing I need to do is the international press blaming me for a musical cat-astrophe."

"You should have something for good luck, though," he muses, and then he smiles and transfers his clothes to the crook of an arm and comes over with his other arm wide, seemingly going for a hug.

Which it is, of a sort. It also lets him press his nose into the crook of Nick's neck, which suddenly receives a small lick. "Knock 'em dead, yeah?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
With a reaction like that, Nick grows quiet for a moment. "Ok. So maybe that was jus-" He pauses, "That time is a bit hard to explain but there's this sp-" He shakes his head, "Nevermind!"

Seeing the mood in the temporary roommate seem to improve, he relaxes a bit. Lifting up an arm, he returns the one armed hug. Closing his eyes for a moment. Just a wheeee moment.

Feeling the wet sandpapery sensation on his neck, the eyes open and he glances down in surprise. He shoots Vorpal a smirk. "You got it."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Vorpal returns the smirk and, after a nuzzle into the neck, disengages. "Well... I'd better be on my way and let you get ready." he says with a wink, and steps back a couple of steps.

And suddenly the entire room, the air, everything acquired the telltale look of a black-and-white movie. And Vorpal is suddenly the spitting image of Lauren Bacall. "You know you don?t have to act with me, Nick. You don?t have to say anything, and you don?t have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don?t you, Nick? You just put your lips together and? blow"

The illusion vanishes just as the Rabbit Hole appears.

"... sorry. I alway wanted to do that line," he says, and gives the dream-singer a wink. "Call me."

And then he turns around and walks out through the rabbit hole with an elegant, deliberate gait the likes of which only felines are capable of.